


runaway

by roseticos



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: M/M, Road Trip, Slow Build, its a weird setting but trust me ok, jihoon sings, mentions of homophobia?, soonyoung is a dancer, theres probably a happy ending
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-19
Updated: 2019-04-04
Packaged: 2019-08-25 02:55:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16652932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roseticos/pseuds/roseticos
Summary: ☆in which soonyoung is gay and from the city and jihoon is obliviously bi and from the country. and they both meet. (and they both kind of fall in love.)or: soonyoung moved to atlanta when he was eight and never left, but jihoon has only seen skyscrapers in pictures.





	1. waffles

**Author's Note:**

> hiya, this is a big rewrite of a previously written work. chapters are updated infrequently, feedback is appreciated !

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> soonyoung falls out of the closet

_Cold_. Soonyoung never did like it.

Even with deep-rooted memories of below zero temperatures and feet of snow, he can't find the deep chill of southern winters any more satisfactory. A different type of winter, it's the kind of cold that seeps into your bones and refuses to leave. It's seasonal for his mother to call him weak, and accuse him of becoming an American. Of course, she can't be more correct.

Soonyoung sniffs and shoves his hands into the pockets of his windbreaker, squeezing a hand warmer inside. Glancing up at the Waffle House sign, he puffs out a clouded breath and sighs. The scent of breakfast in the air is thick, the boy's stomach rumbling at the prominent smell of waffles. Gut-wrenching with anxiety and hunger, he has to swallow the nausea burning in the back of his throat.

Resigning himself to his fate, Soonyoung decides that he can't put his brunch off any longer. Pulling open the restaurant door, he scans the tables full of patrons for someone in particular.

His mother finds him easily enough, waving him over from a booth by the window. _"Soonyoung-ah! You're late! I've already ordered!"_

Ms. Kwon is a tenacious— although civil— woman. Set in her old ways, it's hard to sway her to diverge from the values she grew up with. After moving, she never remarried and refused to become fluent in English, insisting that if she did, she would be turning her back on her history. Her comprehension was enough to get by, but her production lacked to the point where she pestered her son into reverting to his native tongue each time he visited.

Soonyoung forces himself to smile at her, slipping into the seat across from her, "Sorry, you know how Jun gets," he excuses himself. "He kept getting distracted during—"

Ms. Kwon scoffs at her son, a sly smile tugging at her lips, _"Stop speaking English, you know how terrible I am, speak in Korean!"_

" _Ah, Mom, you're as bad as my old Spanish teacher..."_ The boy finds himself sighing again. "It's not easy to switch so suddenly."

Soonyoung can remember the countless times he had trouble distinguishing languages during school. Learning English was a pain in the ass at first, and becoming comfortable with using a different language depending on the setting carried a similar feeling. It only worsened in middle school when they began foreign language classes. Spanish made Soonyoung want to bang his head on his desk. He once told his teacher he would sooner write his project in Korean than Spanish because he'll be damned if he has to learn a _third_ language.

 _"I don't care about how easy it is, what matters is that you do,"_ and before Soonyoung can reply, his mother moves on.  _"I've already ordered for you since you were late, which I'm sure won't be a problem considering you order the same thing every week. Church ended so early, it felt like I was here for hours. Mr. Park said he was looking forward to you attending, but you had your practice..."_

_"You know this was the only day I could meet with him. Sometimes it's just unavoidable."_

Soonyoung really tried to get Jun to meet him another day for their impromptu dance lesson, but the other boy was adamant, repeating how he was busy every day _except_ Sunday. It didn't seem to matter that Soonyoung missed the weekly church service with his mother the times in a row, now. The pastor, Mr. Park, seems genuinely disappointed in his absence.

 _"I expect you to have your schedule cleared for next week,"_ Ms. Kwon muses, stirring the cup of coffee in front of her that appears to be half creamer, _"I can't have my son missing church and brunch."_ She picks up the mug, taking a slow sip from it and setting it back down on the table.

Soonyoung decides to have a staring contest with the window, observing the busy city street outside in silence. Students from the nearby college walk with their backpacks slung over their shoulders, a coffee in hand. Locals and dressed up church goers walk by in large coats, their noses dusted with pink as they try to go about their business. Tourists in thin windbreakers travel with their suitcase in one hand and a map in the other. The cold never stops the city from moving.

"I know," he takes a deep breath.  _"Mom, there's actually something—"_

Their food is ready. Ms. Kwon, momentarily distracted from Soonyoung, smiles at the waiter who sets down their food, thanking him through a thick accent that never seems to go away when she speaks. Soonyoung finds himself muttering thanks in Korean before correcting himself into English.

His mother wastes no time in digging into her fruit and oatmeal while Soonyoung glares at his sausage and waffle decorated with peanut butter chips. It's his favorite meal that he orders every week, yes, _every_ week, when he eats with his mother. She remembered it. She loved him enough to remember.

Somehow, that hurts.

Soonyoung eats slowly, stomach twisting at the thought of what he has to tell her. After planning for weeks, he knows today is his chance. He has no idea what she'll do _—_ if she'll still love him or not. It's anxiety inducing, but he knows that he can't put off the conversation any longer.

 _"So,"_ Ms. Kwon cuts in, picking at a blueberry. _"How have you been? Meet anyone new recently?"_

Guilt plagues Soonyoung at this. She asked him the same thing last week, and the week before that. She's waiting for him to settle down, to find a nice girl to marry. Except, he can't. He hasn't met any girls. He doesn't _like_ girls.

Shoving another piece of his waffle into his mouth, Soonyoung buys himself more time. He knew that it would come to this eventually. He has to have this conversation about relationships, but he wanted it to be on his own terms. This is a little too soon.

For now, he has had to dodge around it and prepare himself, "I haven't, I'm afraid. _It's hard to meet people who like the same things I do._ " He's not sure what he means by that, but it works. It's not exactly a lie, and it gives him a convincing excuse.

Ms. Kwon frowns.  _"That's a shame. Can't you talk to one of those girls at your dance studio? Some of them seem really nice."_

Stalling, Soonyoung takes another bite, and another, unsure of how to start. Where _can_ he start? How does one go about doing things like this? Minghao hadn't been any help in offering advice. _Minghao's_ parents are supportive. Soonyoung isn't sure about his.

She never mentioned it before, never gave her opinion. It was never brought up in church. The issue was never apart of the Kwon's lives until it directly affected Soonyoung. And even then, he never dared to ask her. So Soonyoung's leg bounces, head swimming with all kinds of ideas.

As he sets down his fork beside his half-eaten plate, he notices his hands are beginning to shake, and he's afraid of crying. His throat wants to close in, and he feels like he can't breathe.

_"Mom."_

He shouldn't have said that. It slipped, it _slipped_ , he's not ready to talk about this. He should have waited. He should have—

 _"Yes_ , _Soonyoung?"_ Ms. Kwon looks up from her bowl expectantly, waiting for her son to tell her something.

Despite the practical option of bullshitting another excuse, Soonyoung feels like he's on autopilot, reading the script he's rehearsed in his head for months now, _"There's— There's something I wanted to talk to you about. Something that's— r-really important to me._ You know?"

Her blank expression only makes him feel worse. Soonyoung knows it's her way of being open to what he's saying, but it isn't comforting. In fact, he's terrified.

 _"I know what that feeling is like,"_ she eventually reflects, _"Your father and I had many difficult talks. I learned to always take his side into account and to understand what he was feeling as well. Soonyoung-ah, you can tell me anything."_

Anything? The thought lingers as millions of scenarios are played through for the ways this can end. He can see them all; the ones where she smiles and tells him it's okay, that she loves him, and the ones where she slaps him, disowns him on the spot. This is when everything changes.

Clinging to the good outcomes, Soonyoung plunges further, feeling the words he's been repeating to himself for so long spill out. _"There's this thing about me that I've known for a while now. Maybe a few years, I- I don't really know when it finally made sense. It's something really important that I hope won't affect the way you see me. I love you, Mom, a lot, and it's r-really hard to tell you why I haven't really been seeing anyone."_

The shaking is worse. His mother won't stop staring at him and he can't stop thinking about how he should just _shut up;_  he's not sure if he's ready to say this or not. He wants to cry, but he can't until he gets it _out_. He's tired of lying to her, of pretending that he's something he's not, but his voice is broken and shaking.

 _"Mom,"_ he whimpers. _"I'm gay."_

The only thing Soonyoung recognizes is the flicker of disappointment in her eyes.

A beat later, he's sobbing. It floods, more than he imagined it would. Vision obscured by tears, his head pounds with his heart, and he waits for the stinging words sure to follow.

He realizes that he can't have his happy ending. That's not how this is going to go. She's going to tell him that she can't love him anymore, that maybe it's best if he doesn't come to next week's service. She's going to be angry, she's going to hit him, to curse him out for being _so_ disgusting.

But she doesn't. It's as if the words never left his mouth. All she does is clear her throat and look down. She doesn't know what to say. She hates him. _She hates him_.

Soonyoung would rather have her be angry. It would be better if she curses at him, if she expresses how shameful this is. If she abandons him. He would rather have a fiery parting of ways than a silent rejection. He hates this. He hates all of this.

Anything is better than silence. Anything is better than the blank expression and that crestfallen stare shattering his heart.

He should have kept his big mouth _shut_.

_"Mom. I-I'm sorry, forget I said anything— p-please—"_

Ms. Kwon gathers her things. Standing from the table, she leaves the restaurant without a second glance, ignoring the quiet pleas of her son to _stay_ , to _listen_ , to _forget_. She doesn't hear him. She doesn't listen. Not a word is exchanged. 

Something breaks within Soonyoung.

His mind screams at him to get up, to plead for her to take him back. Invisible hands hold him in place, forcing him to let everything out and make himself look like a fool in public, sobbing over his peanut butter waffle.

He stays like that for a while. Maybe he hopes that his mother will come back. Maybe he's waiting for someone to tell him how to feel. Soonyoung doesn't know when he stops crying, but when he looks up, the table has been cleared.

His mother is still gone. Soonyoung is still alone.

 

____________

 

 

Numb fingers fumble with keys, turning them on the ring until the correct one is found. Soonyoung sniffs, cold and distraught; he shoves the key into the lock before turning it.

His head feels fuzzy, and the warmth of his apartment is soothing. The blond likes to describe his single bedroom home as _comfortable_ before _small,_  possibly as a method to distract him from the fact that there's only one window and that the neighbors have been confirmed as drug dealers. At least it's quiet.

Soonyoung hums to himself as he peels back layers of clothing, hanging up his jacket and slipping off a sweatshirt before settling with the thinner sweatshirt underneath. Trying to get comfortable, he drags himself to the bedroom where he changes into shorts and a pair of slippers. He makes the effort to avoid the mirror.

There's nothing interesting on TV _—_ and Soonyoung would know because he tried. Settling with a history show babbling about dead English kings buried under parking lots, he sits in front of the couch and wills the cloud in his brain to finally part. 

He's still alone. He's still _reeling_. At some point, Soonyoung takes a long nap in front of the television, startling awake just as they discover the parking lot skeleton to be King Richard III.

Reason re-introduces itself and Soonyoung knows he needs to talk to someone. Dialing a particular number, the blond waits for the phone to pick up. He has no idea what time it is.

"Soonyoung? I thought you slept at this time." Minghao seems shocked to receive a call from him.

"I do," the older says simply.

It's clear to Minghao that something is upsetting him from the tone in his voice. Soonyoung is the one who dominates conversations, voice rising over others and commanding attention. There's always something for him to say. 

"Hey, you good? Do you need something?" Minghao checks. There's nothing he won't do to help.

Soonyoung's voice breaks. "Hao. I did it. I told her."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edited: 190514


	2. talk of the town

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the local scandal of jihoon's town

_They're_ _talking_ _again_.

After years of waiting tables, Jihoon knows when gossip is going around. With fewer people around, rumors burn through conversations like wildfire, and it's never long until everyone is putting their own opinion into the lives of others. He can always see it in the way women in their Sunday clothes whisper to each other during their after church brunch, expressing their shock over whatever the news may be.

This time, Jihoon isn't sure what to make of it. It isn't often that this kind of thing happens; when trouble is stirred or a secret is spilled. The last time Jihoon overheard any kind of interesting gossip was a year or two ago when a couple of teenagers broke into some cars. Nothing like that has happened since.

The boy leans on the counter with his chin propped on his hand, observing the table of elderly women from across the room and the way that they talk with one another. They're regulars for a Sunday morning who always come in for the Lees' county famous biscuits. The women are far more attentive to one another than usual as one recounts a story with startling passion. It's a serious conversation for them to have, for Jihoon has never heard them discuss anything other than cooking recipes or sewing patterns. He figures they would be talking about the weather, or the crops, or the soap opera they seem to follow every week. He's suspicious of anything else.

From behind him, a bell rings, Jihoon's mother calling out that an order is ready for him to take. He takes the plates of steaming food, pleasantly surprised to find that it's for the very table he was curious about.

Too caught up in their fervent discussion, the women fail to notice Jihoon approach, the waiter taking his time in setting down the order.

"...his poor father say?" one finishes, deep concern in her eyes.

Another shakes her head in dismay, "And that's just the thing! Said he didn't care who his son was messin' around with, as long as he don't get himself in trouble!"

The third scoffed, "That ain't right. None of it. His boy oughta know what trouble is."

Jihoon shuffles away with more questions than answers. This sounds like something more than just a couple of idiots with rocks and a sense of disrespect. This is disconcertingly personal, and it almost feels wrong for Jihoon to eavesdrop on such a thing. _Someone_ around town was caught doing _something_ with someone else that they shouldn't have been doing. It concerns Jihoon to no end, to the point where he's almost grateful when another plate is called.

They're still talking like before, the first woman having taken a biscuit. Jihoon sets a bowl of grits beside them and snatches a washcloth from the back pocket of his apron, deciding that the tables nearby look a little dirty.

"I haven't seen anything like this before, an' it better stop. Can't have the rest of the boys gettin' any ideas from this."

Jihoon furrows his eyebrows, slowing his movements and paying closer attention. What can they possibly not want anyone like him catching on to? Jihoon knows respect, knows what is rational and what isn't. At least, he thinks he does.

The third woman finally picks up a biscuit, "He's lucky it wasn't me that found him. If I'd've caught two boys under a tree like that, neither one of 'em would have made it out with their behinds intact."

Jihoon is concerned.

"Hopefully he'll get married someday. Find a nice _woman_ to settle down with. No man is marryin' another man. It ain't right."

Jihoon is _very_ concerned.

Two boys? Messing around? He's never heard of that before. Maybe he's seen it before on the news, back a few years ago... when they announced something about same-sex marriages becoming legal. He had been surprised back then, too, but he didn't see the big problem. He wasn't sure if the churches around actively preached against it or not because his parents never have time to attend. His parents call themselves Christians, but Jihoon couldn't lead prayer if he tried.

It's a few seconds before Jihoon blinks, realizing that he had been wiping the same spot for several minutes as he eavesdropped. From the kitchen, his mother is calling for him again, and there are more plates to pass out. This time, he takes them out, but he doesn't linger anywhere for the talk of the town. Jihoon thinks he's heard enough for one day.

 

____________

 

 

The day passes with little other drama, bit Jihoon can't get what he heard out of his head. Even as the morning rush finishes and Jihoon leaves to take care of a few favors, the whispers of those he passes stick out in his ears. It seems as if the controversy of two boys making out under a tree is enough to get an entire town talking. If he's honest with himself, Jihoon can only hope it's not anyone that he is friends with. He figures that his parents haven't heard the news, as they never mention it to him. Jihoon's father isn't exactly impartial to this kind of thing, and he almost expects a lecture on why he can't get caught up in anything of that nature.

Jihoon didn't see what the big deal was. Maybe that boy's father had been right. Should it even matter who he loves, as long as he isn't breaking the law? It's not illegal to love someone. That's something Jihoon is sure of.

Still, it seems that those around him have other ideas.

That night, as the dinner rush approaches, Jihoon sprints home from picking pecans for their neighbor, a few extra dollars in hand. He fumbles with his keys, swinging open the house door and snatching up his guitar case that lays expectantly by the door. It's half his height, and he stumbles down the patio and to the driveway where his battered, red truck waits for him.

The case is shoved into the passenger seat, Jihoon clambering to the driver's seat. He shoves maps and an ice cream pail out of his way, settling into the dirty seat and kicking the engine to life in the cool evening air. It sputters once or twice as a protest to the temperature, but it's smooth sailing from there. Jihoon cranes his neck over the steering wheel in order to see where he's going, but it seems unnecessary considering how many times he's driven the path from his home to the restaurant.

Though he runs a minute or two late, he arrives before the tables are too crowded. They're not exactly the most popular joint in town, but Sunday is the busiest. He can't afford to miss this daily routine.

Greeting the waitress on staff for the night, Jihoon snatches a chair from the corner of the room and unpacks his guitar. There's no microphone. There never has been. Jihoon doesn't need one anyway.

Looking over the familiar faces of his friends and neighbors, Jihoon feels himself smile. The previous events of the day fade as he picks at the strings of his instrument. No gossip. No scalding looks. Just him and his music. This is what he works for. At the end of the day, this is all that Jihoon needs.

He goes through the list of songs he had chosen the night before, hitting everything from newer pop music to the country classics he knows that they like. They clap when he finishes, smiling at him. As they leave, they pass by and give him their compliments in between songs. Younger children that he recognizes come up with money that their parents had given them, slipping it into his case and running away with shy smiles. These people know him, they _care_ for him.

As Jihoon watches the last customer go with a smile, he feels someone ruffle his hair, and he looks up to see his mother smiling back at him.   
  
"You did good," she compliments him. "Thank you." Even though there isn't a need to, she always manages to thank him. Jihoon can’t be more happy with his work. This is what he does. If he doesn’t make music, he doesn't know what he could be doing. There are no thanks needed.   
  
But of course, his mother feels obligated to show her appreciation. It's hard enough as it is, running a business in a small town, especially as second best. With only one or two extra staff along with the family themselves, Jihoon is either elsewhere picking up his own work or working right alongside them. While it may seem like they're popular based on Sunday sales, the weekdays are slow.   
  
An enthusiastic greeting startles the two as Jihoon's father emerges from the kitchen with three plates piled with leftover food.   
  
"Who's hungry?" he cheers, carefully balancing a plate on his arm. Jihoon takes it carefully, knowing his father's lack of experience in waiting will more likely end in a disaster than a successful balancing act.   
  
The family settles at a table, digging into their meals after a long dinner shift. Conversation is lively, stories of each person’s day tossed back and forth.

Jihoon’s father asks him of the extra jobs he handled, and he is proud to tell how he spent his afternoon picking pecans off of Mr. Townshed’s yard and washing the windows of Ms. Emily’s antiquities shop. How he made another hundred off of it, even though he nearly busted his ass from slipping in soapy water.

As his parents talk about the restaurant and the next day to come, the morning’s events slip from Jihoon’s mind quicker than he can shell a pile of peas. It’s obvious that the Lee’s are thrown out of the social loop and have yet to hear of a controversy, but it suits Jihoon just fine that they don’t have to be concerned about the supposedly blasphemous behavior of a couple of bored teenagers.

If anything, _Jihoon_ is the one who should be concerned. He’s young, a boy outside of the local norms with a different heritage and little spiritual sense to him.

But he’s not worried about that now. Jihoon would much rather be concerned about the affairs of his family than another’s. He would rather be concerned about the next growing season then who is kissing who.

What the town says shouldn’t affect him. That’s what he wants to believe, anyway.

After a long drive in the dark back home, Jihoon retires to the guest house with his laptop and guitar. A nightly ritual, Jihoon works on his music.

He looks up new songs to practice and writes them down or tries them out. He takes the songs that are works in progress, changing their keys or going over the chords another time. He runs through pieces; a one-man rehearsal that lasts for hours.

At the end of it all, some time late into the night, Jihoon shuffles through a stack of papers. Some are covered in words— lyrics— and others are guitar tabs. Taking one of each, Jihoon makes another attempt to string them together into a song with a few lazy strums of his instrument. When he glares at the pages without a drop of inspiration for ten minutes, he decides that it’s time to turn in.

Content with his progress, Jihoon crawls into the guest bed fully clothed and closes his eyes. That night, he dreams of a large tree and wide open pastures.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !! it’s jihoon’s birthday !!
> 
> thankfully, i was able to finish this up, so think of it as a celebratory update!
> 
> edited: 190519 (no major changes)


	3. distraction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> soonyoung needs to get away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love soonhao bffs!!

_“You’re an idiot, Soonyoung.”_

Soonyoung sips his milkshake, watching as Minghao slips into the booth seat across from him with his breakfast. Outside of the small fast food restaurant where they agreed to meet, the sun has barely begun to rise, skyline blurred with wild paint strokes of pink and purple.

Seeing the blond in a daze, Minghao purses his lips, “You should have told me you were going to do it yesterday. I thought you were going to wait a little longer...”

If he’s honest, Soonyoung did too. It’s clear that he isn’t as rational as he thinks he is, and that he convinced himself that rushing to come out was the better option. He couldn’t swallow the pill of lying any longer, but he regrets everything about what he forced himself to do. He _is_ an idiot. A blubbering, reckless idiot.

At least Minghao still loves him. The photographer and fashion icon is nothing short of a blessing. Though he lives in the suburbs, further away from Soonyoung’s bustling city, he’s never unwilling to meet with him for fast food chicken and milkshakes, Asian takeout, or anything in between. His schedule is rather clear, and he’s always okay with doing something with him.

This morning, it’s chicken and milkshakes in suburban neighborhoods, observing the local high schoolers come in to study with their friends. You could say that Soonyoung didn’t sleep very well, and had no problem driving over to eat at just past six in the morning. He spent half an hour picking at his food before Minghao arrived.

It’s getting busier as the sun rises, but it doesn’t really bother the blond. He’s already cried in the middle of a downtown Waffle House facing a crowded street. He can handle this.

He’s fine.

Having forgotten his previous annoyances, Minghao focuses on his friend, who has yet to look away from the window, “Soonyoung? Hey, it’s okay, just pay attention to me.”

Soonyoung does, but he finds it harder and harder to breathe the more Minghao reassures that _I’ll always love you, you have me and Jun and Chan as your family too_. As his empathy seeps into him, he finds it harder and harder to keep his tears at bay.

He needs this. After hours of constant, repetitive loathing aimed at himself, he needs to hear Minghao tell him it’s okay, even though it’s not. Soonyoung feels like he’s lost everything over one, stupid decision.

His mother won’t answer her phone. Soonyoung left three voicemails. She always picked up for him before. When he called Minghao, desperate, the younger told him that she probably needed time, but Soonyoung couldn’t get it through his head.

It’s out of character. Soonyoung knows his mother well, knows how to read her. When it comes to difficult decisions and conversations, she never hesitates. She shares that with her son: the need to solve issues as soon as they’re presented to her.

But Ms. Kwon isn’t talking to him, a clear sign that she isn’t willing to come to an agreement. It’s the closest thing to a rejection that Soonyoung will ever get.

Before Minghao can finish, Soonyoung is wiping at his face, trying in vain to _not_ look like a fool in the middle of a restaurant. Again.

“... _Ah, Hyung, don’t cry._ It’s gotta be hard, but I know you’re going to be alright. I know you’ve got this, okay? _It’s okay,_ it’s okay.”

Soonyoung sniffs, “Everything is going to change, a-and there’s nothing I can do to stop that. God, Hao, I’m— I’m so scared.”

The sidewards glance Minghao gives to the teenagers in the restaurant is anything but discreet, but Soonyoung can hardly care anymore. He’s tired. So, _so_ tired. And he wants to go home and sleep whatever this is off, but his constant state of anxiety and level of sugar intake is keeping him awake.

After a minute or so, Minghao pushes Soonyoung’s milkshake and food closer to him in a silent plea to eat. The younger unwraps his biscuit and eats, watching as the blond across from him takes another slow sip from his drink.

When he disregards the food, Minghao speaks up in between bites, _“Yah, eat the chicken before it gets cold._ ”

Huffing, Soonyoung pulls his box of food closer, muttering _“I can’t believe I taught him Korean for this,”_ under his breath.

“What is this disrespect?” Minghao whispers, scandalized, “In _my_ suburbs?”

With his friend’s lighthearted tone, the dancer feels some of the weight lift. He pops a chicken nugget in his mouth, stuffing in a piece of sweet bread a second later.   
  
“Why are you speaking it anyway?” Soonyoung teases, prepared to make fun of Minghao, only to receive a genuine answer back.   
  
Minghao sips his tea, “Soonyoung Kwon, you know language reliance depends on the situation, right? I don’t know exactly what state you’re in, so how am I supposed to know what’s getting through to that crowded brain of yours?”   
  
“I love you, you know that right?”   
  
“No you don’t,” his retaliation is swift, “You’re getting me confused with someone else.”

As the two boys eat breakfast, soaking in the comfort that they gave each other, Soonyoung feels better about the whole situation. And while reassurances, a few tears, and a milkshake did wonders for him, Soonyoung far from past it. For now, though, he’s content with being okay. For now, he’s happy with banter and fast food, so long as it’s with a friend like Minghao.

And of course, there’s Minghao. There’s always been Minghao. A thousand fast-food breakfasts could never repay Minghao for everything he’s done for Soonyoung. The dancer knows that he has his back through whatever he may go through, from dealing students to coming out. Soonyoung could never ask for anything more.

“You’re going to need to find a way to get past this,” the younger explains, combing his fingers through his tan locks, “This is something you’re going to have to accept, one way or another. I know it can’t be easy, and it might take you some time, but… find something. For you. Do something to help yourself. Seek counseling, reach out to the community, change something up, distract yourself. Whatever works.”

Well aware of what Minghao is trying to do for him, Soonyoung considers his options. It will take time to adjust, and Sundays will be hard, but he knows this is something he can do. Although it would give him extra support, he doesn’t think he could bring himself to be overly social or seek outside help. After all, this was personal, and he had support already. This left him with minimal options and a faint idea.

“What do you mean by distraction?” Soonyoung inquiries softly.

Minghao pauses in his advice, eyes widening when he realizes that he isn’t sure, “I don’t know. Dig deep in your hobbies, take up a new one. Take some time off to relax or take a vacation. I don’t know, I’ve heard that advice before. Chan says he distracts himself whenever he has an anxiety attack and it’s helped him. Why don’t you take a weekend or a couple of days and skip town?”

The idea is inviting, and Soonyoung gnaws on his lip. Even after so many years, he and his mother never traveled outside of the suburbs, always staying close to Atlanta. Maybe if he ventured out somewhere farther, the sights would get his mind off things, no matter how dull they may be.

“That might work,” and then a breaks into a grin, “Yeah, it might! Minghao, you’re a genius.”

Shrugging, the younger is glad to take the compliment, “I guess you can call me that. It’s what friends are for, Soon.”

A groan slips out of Soonyoung as he picks up the last of his mostly melted milkshake, relief flooding into him after finding something good to do for himself, “God, are you sure I don’t love you?”

Minghao winks, “That’s for you decide. But no, I’m sure.”

Once they finish their meal, the two linger in the parking lot, taking their time in saying goodbye and discussing Soonyoung’s plans. When the dancer suggests leaving quickly, Minghao offers to help him pack, and although Soonyoung almost wishes he could just drag him with him, he accepts with minimal complaint. Satisfied, it isn’t long before Minghao is driving Soonyoung back into the city, glancing at him from the driver seat to make sure that he’s okay.

For the first time in a day or two, Soonyoung thinks that he is.

 

____________

 

By morning, Soonyoung is ready for his road trip.

After spending hours the night before going through outfits and folding them neatly into a duffle bag, struggling to fit as much as they could, the boys ended up passing out together on his bed. So, Minghao spent the night, sure to smother his older friend in love and attention to keep his mind off things before falling asleep into his side.

Their morning is spent together, with bowls of marshmallow cereal and cartoons, laughing and joking and not worrying about anything. It’s the kind of morning Soonyoung wishes he could have every day.

Soonyoung brings Minghao back home when they’re finished. Junhui is waiting at their home, answering the door groggily, having slept the morning away. Taking in his appearance, the younger two giggle. But once he realizes who’s there, Jun takes his leave.

“You’ll be okay, right?” Minghao is sure to check once more, “You’ll call one of us later? Jun, Chan, or I. And you’ll stay safe and not trust strangers or—”

“Minghao,” he places his hand on his arm, “I’ll be _fine._  I promise.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay,” the younger relents, “Fine. Have fun. Take some cool pictures for me— oh! Wait wait wait, take my camera, take my extra camera it’s just in my room wait a minute!”

Soonyoung watches fondly as his younger deserts him on his doorstep, rushing inside and disappearing up the steps. The door is left open, cold air seeping into the home. But the delighted photographer is back quickly, holding one of his cameras that Soonyoung could never afford. He wonders how Minghao can afford it himself, but the thought quickly diminishes when he shoves the device into his arms.

“Take some good ones and don’t. Break. It. Or I will personally track you down and break _you_ ,” Soonyoung doesn’t doubt the validity of that statement, but the younger’s grin brightens as soon as it dimmed, and he gives him a tiny wave, “Anyway, see many sights for me!”

Happily taking the camera, Soonyoung bids his final goodbyes and slips into his car, a small SUV that he’s sure that he’s going to have to spend the next few days in. He gets on the interstate and heads south, not really sure where he’s going, exactly. It’s spontaneous, and a little terrifying, but it feels different and that’s what keeps him from turning back.

Kwon Soonyoung, idiot extraordinaire, is going on a road trip.  



	4. love song for

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a love song for someone jihoon has yet to meet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> how long has it been?? i'm just glad i never have up finishing... 
> 
> our characters meet, finally! it feels like it's moving a little quickly, but hopefully everything flows okay. most of it is written in short bursts with really stretched out scenes. 
> 
> i think this is mostly proofread for mistakes, so sorry if there are any. i'm really proud of some of my descriptions and hope i'm not too sucky at words

_Jihoon lives on a road with no end._

One end of the street leads to the square and the other leads to nowhere. The fingertips of town barely brush the edge of his family’s home, where their property line is defined and bordering that of their neighbors, but their yard is expansive enough to support a guest house and garage, a grove of trees, and a garden. From the back of the guest house, their neighbor’s driveway is a stone’s throw away, but standing at the edge of their miniature pine forest, there isn’t a house for miles.

There are things about the Lees’ home that make it familiar to Jihoon. The dirtying baby blue paint of their quaint, two-story house that has Jihoon’s handprints scattered across the wood; the metal roof of the guest house that screams when it rains, white noise lulling Jihoon to sleep; the sunroom with houseplants in every corner, the creaky table piled with papers; the floor of the garage covered with so much dirt and dust that he can draw in it, something he did regularly as a kid.

Before the sun can leak into the guest house’s blinds, the marimba tone of Jihoon’s alarm shatters his sleep. Groaning into his pillow, the short boy rolls over, taking his quilts with him and fumbling for his phone.

With a swipe of his finger to turn off his alarm, Jihoon _literally_ rolls out of bed, landing on a pile of pillows with a soft _thud_.

He freshens up and takes a shower, brushing his teeth and taming his short, black hair that likes to spike itself when he sleeps. There isn’t a jacket laying around to put on, so when he steps outside in his large, pink t-shirt and a pair of jeans, the winter wind blows right through him. Letting a shiver bolt through him, Jihoon almost wishes that it was spring again.

(Scratch that. He does. In spring, Jihoon can wear shorts and t-shirts and still break a sweat in the torturous heat. In spring, plants bloom and patches of grass become wildflower fields adorned with colorful weeds and fragrant lavender; he can pick armfuls of lavender and place them in a vase for a few days and hang flowers in the window to dry. Winter is cold and bitter, and Jihoon can only drink so many mugs of warm cider before he’s longing for sunburns and bumble bees again.)

The house is locked, but Jihoon has his key, holding the creaky screen door open with his foot as he jams it into the doorknob. The screen slams shut as he enters, but he’s too used to the racket to pay it much mind. When he flips the switch, the kitchen lights flicker awake, a tired buzz floating through the room.

While waiting for the stove to heat, Jihoon enters the connected den, turning on the television and changing the channel to the westerns, keeping the volume loud enough to hear it from the other room. It’s okay if his parents wake up; they’re kind of supposed to.

Breakfast is eggs, biscuits, and grits. Ingredients for biscuits are always out, and Jihoon has been making them since he could roll dough. The rest goes by in a flash, and he moves around the kitchen in a rush to get everything perfect.

By the time his mother emerges from her bedroom dressed for the day, the table is set and Jihoon is smearing honey onto the steaming bread.

The lines etched into her features are tired yet soft, and she shoots her son a friendly smile, mouthing a silent thank you as she does every morning.

Jihoon doesn’t remember when she stopped cooking for the family, but he suspects it was sometime in his teens when his father insisted he begin practicing for when he could join the kitchen staff at work. Either way, he’s more than happy to provide if it gives them a break from the work.

While he’s young, Jihoon figures that he might as well make himself useful. He doesn’t pretend to not notice the way his father groans at every other stair step, joints worn and not what they used to be.

It’s no different when he joins them this morning. Jihoon’s father pours his coffee and glances out the window, examining the yard. He seems satisfied with something when he turns away, snatching a biscuit from the table as he walks by. Ruffling Jihoon’s hair— something he never grew out of— he says something in Korean before disappearing into the living room.

Jihoon hardly knows anything other than his name in the language, so he just smiles, albeit nervously. Meanwhile, his mother chuckles at his confused expression.

“He says his son is going to replace him, soon, from being so good,” she whispers a translation.

Feeling his face heat up at what he assumes is a compliment, Jihoon quickly stuffs his face with eggs.

Just as the sun rises, his parents leave for the restaurant. He tells them that he’ll be doing the cooking tonight and that they have no need to worry about keeping leftovers.

Until the dinner shift, Jihoon waters the plants and cleans the house. Monday is laundry day and the guest house sheets have begun to smell more like deodorant and minty shampoo than actual detergent. Jihoon’s neglected, space patterned pajama pants have a suspicious smell to them and a questionable stain on the leg, and he wants to wear them when he goes to bed. 

It’s sunny outside but it’s also cold, and since Jihoon’s nose turns pink and runny when he stays out for too long he uses the dryer instead of hanging the sheets on the line.

To avoid the dusty floor, he finds a stool to waste time on and drags it closer to the washing machine where heat still seeps into the room. The rest of the garage is cold. Jihoon wears fingerless gloves and sniffles, but he leans against the shelf of canned preserves with his guitar and listens to his voice crack under the crashing of the washing machine, staring longingly at the laundry basket opposite him as if it might do something.

It doesn’t, and Jihoon’s lullabies are drowned in the noise.

 

____________

 

 

When Jihoon sings about love, he has no idea what it means, and everyone knows it. Whether it’s a cover of something well known— old or new— or it’s false words from his own mouth, his friends still prod him with teasing observations that he’s never dated anyone in his life.

He had a crush once when he was, what, seven? At the time, he didn’t know how to deal with it. He gave her a flower and then cried when she explained that she was waiting to let anyone try and court her, at her mother’s request. Afterwards, Jihoon’s father told him that love was a futile effort to pursue and urged him to let it come passively.

Jihoon doesn’t know why he sings love songs. He sings them for the audience, sure, but he gains nothing from it. Sometimes it’s harder to pour his emotions into a concept he’s never been able to explore. Love songs for the loveless, he supposes.

Jihoon doesn’t know why the stranger that just walked in reminds him of a love song, either. Though he’s never seen him around, something about him strikes as familiar with the singer. A flicker of recognition. But he’s never met him before, and that’s weird.

When he sits down during a brief intermission, Jihoon looks up from his phone. He prepares to smile at the customer, perhaps call them out from his stage, but his grin falters when he realizes that he doesn’t know the blond man scanning the side of the menu that Jihoon _knows_ has the Korean food. People don’t really order from there often. A lot of people get takeout for lunch, but not for dinner. They enjoy the home favorites that are just as good: the chicken, the fried okra, the fresh peas and the casserole, on special occasions.

He has blond hair. There aren’t as many blonds around— Jihoon suddenly realizes this— but his is dyed and it’s unnatural, standing out in the mass of browns, blacks, and grays.  As he scans the room, the guitarist catches a glimpse of his face and he discovers that he’s Asian. For some reason, that scares him a little bit.

Other than his parents, the only other Asian person Jihoon knows is himself.

Now he _knows_ that he’s not from the area. He looks the part, too; a gray, extra large Georgia Tech sweatshirt hangs off his shoulders and the tears in his jeans are factory made. But, despite being somewhere for the first time, he makes himself comfortable. Despite being an outsider, he acts like he belongs.

“Who is that?”

Jihoon flinches, quickly filtering out the curse that threatened to fall from his lips. Beside him, his mother chuckles, making her hands off with a towel. She leans closer to her son’s ear as if sharing gossip to whisper, “Do you know him, ‘Hoonie?”

Her gaze is planted on the blond only a few tables away, curiosity and a hint of excitement glinting in her eyes. The man scans the foreign menu with a smile, leading Jihoon to believe that he could be from out of the country. _That_ would be interesting.

“No, I’ve never met him.” Jihoon finds himself watching too, studying his tiny, bright eyes and the fullness in his cheeks. He looks like a college student from Atlanta. Maybe he is.

“Well,” she sighs. “Maybe you should talk to him?”

“Ah, no— I don’t think that’s a good idea, Mom. You should, though, you’re better at introducing people to the area.”

She pats his shoulder, a small comfort. “Play one more. Then, I’ll introduce us. He seems friendly, doesn’t he? I think he’s going to order Korean food… I’ll have to make it like I did at home. You remember those times, right?”

The stranger does seem nice. Jihoon also remembers that on special occasions his mother brings out her box of index cards filled with recipe reminders from home— the best ways to cook her recipes from her mother who cooked for others before her. You can say she’s experienced. You can say Jihoon is, too.

Once she ducks back into the kitchen, Jihoon sings another song. He doesn’t decide what it is until after he starts playing. He finds a song in the key and makes it work.

It’s called _Venus_ and it’s a love song. He didn’t write it but he knows how to play it. His song sounds like a letter to no one, a confession for someone he has yet to meet.

_I was a billion little pieces,_

The singer’s calloused fingers dance over guitar frets, plucking along with a song he started studying years ago. Jihoon doesn’t know why the stranger reminds him of a love song, why he feels like _Venus_ is about him.

_‘Til you pulled me into focus._

Even if it is about him, Jihoon can’t place where he fits— if he’s the lost astronomer or the endless pool of the universe that he finds, an endless tangle of constellations already discovered.

The song carries his words and he doesn’t realize it’s over until a soft bout of applause rips him out of his reverie. By the time it ended, his voice had dropped to something gentler; only the nearest tables could hear him sing. To the others, his guitar was only background noise.

The blond is clapping, something sad lingering in his gaze as he smiles at Jihoon and his performance. Pride bursts through his chest.

Soon after, Mrs. Lee returns from the kitchen to personally greet the blond stranger at the table. In curiosity, Jihoon listens to what he can catch, which isn’t much, but he doesn’t move from his seat.

“My son is Jihoon-- he’s the one up there singing. He’s just great, isn’t he? The customers love him.” As his mother gushes about his talents, Jihoon feels his face heat. The man is quick to realize who she talks of and looks around her to flash a grin in the guitarist’s direction.

For some reason, his heart skips a beat.

“‘Hoonie, come say hi!”

Jihoon slides off his stool, almost knocks it over. Not knowing what to do with his hands or where to place his instrument, he holds his guitar to his chest. It’s awkward and fumbly but he shoves out his hand to the blond.

“Howdy—- uh, _hi_. I’m Jihoon.”

“Hello,” the man takes his hand, standing up to greet him properly, “I’m Soonyoung Kwon. It’s nice to meet you!”

Soonyoung makes him feel blushy and nervous and that makes Jihoon feel weird, but maybe in a good way. He hasn’t decided, yet. He’s not used to meeting new people, especially people _like him_ that happen to look really pretty. Yeah, Soonyoung is handsome. He can admit that to himself. In fact, a lot of things about him seem _better_ than Jihoon.

Soonyoung is easily five inches taller than Jihoon is, but a lot of people are taller than Jihoon, so it doesn’t surprise him. His eyes resemble slits and when he smiles, they disappear into his cheeks. He must eat well at home, too— his cheeks are the kind that old ladies like to pinch. To Jihoon, he looks like a hamster.

It’s Mrs. Lee that poses the big question on their minds, asking him where he’s traveling from, what he does, if he knows anyone in the area.

“Admittedly,” Soonyoung confesses, bringing his hand to the back of his neck, “I’m just passing through.” He pulls at his sweatshirt, “It’s probably pretty obvious I’m coming from Atlanta, though this is just my friend’s. He’s a student and I’m a— well, it sounds strange, but I’m a dance instructor and choreographer in the city. Fair pay, but I love what I do, you know? I haven’t really… ah, travelled a lot.”

Jihoon knows that his statement fails to faze his mother, who looks as excited as her son feels. She nods along to his words, absorbing everything he says with a wild glint of hope in her eyes that he has a hard time understanding. Although, she isn’t nervous, and Jihoon is clutching his instrument like a teddy bear, trying not to laugh at everything their new friend says.

(This experience is proving to be both thrilling and nauseating. Jihoon can’t decide if he should laugh out of happiness or cry out of intimidation. He’s never met someone like this. He’s never met someone like Soonyoung.)

“That’s really cool…” Jihoon gapes. He can’t help but recall countless hours at night, burrowed in his blankets and watching pixelated dance videos on the weak wifi of the guest house, subconsciously imitating the routines and wondering if he could ever achieve something so admired as that. Late nights consisting of his laptop propped on the bathroom counter as he examined his form in the mirror, only to concede once his feet started to slip.

Soonyoung chuckles, “It’s nothing, really. I’ve been dancing for a long time.” The blond can’t seem to decide what to do with his hands, either, pushing up his sleeves and pulling them down again. “How long have you played guitar? That’s awesome.”

It takes a few seconds for Jihoon to realize that the question is directed at him before he formulates an answer. Before he can open his mouth, though, a muffled comment floats from the kitchen, and his mother turns to the sound of her husband’s voice. When she leaves, she makes sure to tell him, “Invite him to dinner, will you?”

 _Because that’s easy_. It’s not like Jihoon is supposed to be cooking or anything.

And then they’re left alone, Jihoon awkwardly fumbling with his guitar. “I’ve been playing since I was twelve, I think. It’s been awhile.”

His eyebrows raise, evidently impressed, and Jihoon’s heart swells. “You’re good. I can’t play any instruments, so that’s _really_ cool, Ji.”

“Yeah, I love music,” Jihoon spills, voice disconnected from his brain. “I perform here every night and then go home to practice, and I’m trying to write these songs, but it’s difficult to transfer thoughts into something like lyrics without— without—  I don’t know. It’s complicated stuff. But, uh, I’m glad you’re interested.” He realizes how much he’s said. “There’s not many people around here who are. Well, interested in what _I_ do with it, anyway.”

Soonyoung is still grinning at him. “I love it. Lots of people I know love music, you’re dedicated to it. Your voice is really pretty, too— it’s higher than others, it suits you. You should get more credit for your talents, I think.”

Is he? Complimenting him? Encouraging him? People tip him and tell him _Good job as always, Lee_ , chatting him up about his side jobs and the restaurant and whether he’s available Wednesday to copy pamphlets for the church because _Delane is in the hospital again, poor dear_. They don’t tell him “Hey, I like music like you do and you deserve to be appreciated for all the work you put into your show.” But Soonyoung does. Jihoon just might have found his new favorite person.

His mother is right. He can’t let him get away, yet.

“Thank you,” Jihoon manages to stammer, tearing a hand from the neck of his guitar to run it through his hair. “Mom… My mom was wondering if you still wanted dinner? I don’t know if she realizes I’m supposed to be cooking at home, today, but it seems like she wants you to eat with us. I’m so sorry if that’s too forward for you, you don’t have t—”

“I’d love to,” Soonyoung reassures. He looks unbelievably happy, and Jihoon wonders if he’s always like that. “I’d love to very much.”  



End file.
